


At the end of our days

by ellamason



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Impact Play, M/M, Post-Seine, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 21:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8176693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamason/pseuds/ellamason
Summary: Perhaps if Valjean could help Javert reach the end of the arguments that twisted around them both, they might both find some measure of peace. Instead, it always seemed to come to this.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts).



> For Verabird, for this prompt: _Javert has a knack for sexual cruelty and relishes in the idea of a confined and kept Valjean at his mercy, and Valjean is finding sanctuary in letting go amidst pain/pleasure._

“This is madness. You understand that, don’t you?” Javert bared his teeth and tightened his grip on Valjean’s hair, forcing his head back and his eyes up. “How am I supposed to find the answers when it always comes to this?”

It was true. His evenings with Javert were not supposed to end with a fist in his hair or his back against the wall of his rooms. He was not supposed to wake the following morning with muscles that ached or a lingering sense of uncertainty. He was supposed to invite Javert to his rooms for a simple meal, a measured conversation and perhaps a glass or two of wine. He never intended to guide, only to support. Perhaps, he had imagined, if he could help Javert reach the end of the arguments that twisted around them both, they might both find some measure of peace. Certainly he had not intended this.

And yet, here they were. Valjean pinned against the wall once again, Javert’s thigh pressing between his legs. An iron grip at his shoulder. And the only thoughts in his head were of Javert: Javert’s hands, his mouth, his muscled thigh. And yes, he confessed to himself, Javert’s cock too. He could not ignore it, pressed up against him as it was. His own erection was undeniable. The deliberate thrust of Javert’s thigh was evidence enough of that. He shivered at the contact. It was still hard to believe Javert could know him so well and do anything he chose with that knowledge. 

And yet Valjean no longer had cause to regret placing his trust in Javert’s hands.

These moments were dangerous: when Javert’s arguments had run themselves in circles and he had worn himself past frustration and driven himself into a peculiar, exhausted frenzy. When Javert had spoken for hours until there were no words left. When every contrary thought was spent, the evil ideas temporarily purged along with the good, and there was nothing left but desperate want, his mouth sought Valjean’s. The first time he had felt those lips, urgent and defeated and defiant against his own, Valjean had pulled back in shock. Now he believed he felt the same pull that Javert did.

Or perhaps he simply wished to feel it. Javert’s madness was a burning thing, but he could bear the heat. Rather this than the cold cellar or the empty house. Javert pulled his cravat loose and flattened his hand against the base of Valjean’s throat, watching Valjean’s wide eyes as every beat of his racing heart pulsed against his palm. God forgive him, but he welcomed the touch as the conflagration lifted him from his hollowed-out existence.

All it took was a firm hand on his shoulder to turn him to face the wall. He braced his forearms against it gratefully, knowing what was sure to come next. His shirt was lifted over his head, his back bared to Javert’s assessing gaze. His belt was stripped away next, then his trousers loosened until they pooled around his ankles. Javert took a step backwards, as though taking a more considering glance at an oil painting or a bloodied corpse, and Valjean turned his face to press his cheek against the stone. 

“Get out of those,” Javert’s voice was low but sharp, and Valjean obeyed hastily, stepping free of the trousers and groaning as Javert stepped in closer behind him. A boot nudged his legs apart. Then Javert’s gloved hand reached around to rest on his stomach, feeling it rise and falling with each breath until Valjean’s breathing steadied. The hand moved down between his legs and found the hardness there. And Valjean thought giddily, _what does it matter?_ He had a great many secrets. But not before Javert, it seemed. The rough linen of Javert’s trousers pressed against the back of his thighs. Javert’s breath was heavy on the nape of his neck and Valjean arched back into the touch, welcoming the rasping drag of cloth against his skin.

And then it was gone. A squeeze to his arm and he was abandoned to the frozen air as Javert took a step back. Then another. And another. The click of his boots against the hard floor retreated a few steps. Valjean’s breath caught in his throat as the room grew silent again and he was alone and sightless and exposed. He squeezed his eyes closed and pressed up against the wall, his mind full of the silence that wrapped around him.

After a moment, he heard a quiet exhale. And then again the echo of short and deliberate footsteps as Javert paced the room, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. Valjean stood frozen in place, not entirely afraid but not so bold as to move against the unspoken order.

It was not so difficult, to stand as directed and wait. He had known more solitary kinds of waiting, after all. And here, at least, he knew that Javert would not leave him alone for too long. Even if Javert would not touch him, his presence was still tangible in the room -- a comforting thrum of breath, erratic thuds and muttered argument. The rhythm of Javert’s footsteps echoed against the walls, drowning out lines of thought until there was no choice left but to follow those steps in his mind, trailing the rough pattern Javert laid down and letting each hope and memory fall behind him until there was nothing but the heavy tread of boots and his own painful need.

Did Javert’s mind wander to Valjean, still bare and spread apart and desperately aroused, propped against the wall where Javert had left him? There was no telling.

The footsteps stopped as abruptly as they started. Javert moved behind him, almost close enough to press the length of his body against Valjean’s. He made a strangled laugh, its notes tinged with despair and the pained tone of it wrenched Valjean around. Javert’s expression was haggard, and Valjean reached a half-blind hand up to cup his cheek. Javert’s eyes narrowed. 

“All these months,” he said. “And I don’t understand you any better than I ever did.” But he leaned in anyway. And there, with Javert’s mouth on his and those insistent gloved hands on his chest and face, was the blinding relief of hot, white silence. 

So the words had not quite run out after all. Javert turned him back to face the wall and Valjean anchored himself, concentrating on the rustle of leather and then, most blessed of all, the soft _pop_ of a cork. Javert’s teeth worked at the corner of his ear. “So, since I haven’t yet found the answers, what shall it be?” He drew a slick finger between Valjean’s cheeks. “Shall I be merciful? Or shall I be cruel?”

To ask the question was cruel enough. Valjean pressed back, hoping a wordless request would see him through this, but the finger withdrew. Javert exhaled harshly. “Holding your tongue won’t make this any easier, Valjean.” The hand that had been between his legs closed around his balls. A forearm like an iron bar was braced between his shoulderblades. “I may not have figured you out, but surely you know by now that I’m not merciful by nature.” 

Oh, he knew. But this was not the merciless servant of the law he had known so long. The urgency of Javert’s mouth on his was surely proof of that. Valjean’s breath was forming in a warm mist against the wall. Javert hummed thoughtfully.

“Would it be easier for you if I explained what I mean by mercy?” Another pause. Then: “Yes. Yes, I think that would be the fair thing to do.” Javert’s mouth pressed to the nape of Valjean’s neck, his teeth grazing the wethered places where knots of scars tangled with sweat and grime. Valjean sobbed and Javert continued.

“For weeks now, I have thought about returning with rope. Weeks. I find myself staring at coils of rope in the marketplace any my mind wanders whether I wish for it or not. I think of coming to these battered rooms you insist on living in and lashing you to your bed or to a pole or-- or--” Two hands encircled his wrists and yanked them upwards and then sideways, stretching them wide and his wrists to the wall. 

“Like this, I think. Yes. This suits you very well. How does it feel, Valjean?”

It felt overwhelming. The stretch ached and Javert’s words stung, but his cock jerked without even a touch and he could only sob out loud. This part would not last long, he thought. Some more harsh words, perhaps.And then there would be nothing but Javert’s hands to open him up and at last his mind would be still. 

A scoffing laugh, fraying at the ends. “Still nothing to say? Perhaps you’d speak up if I were to use that belt of yours on you. How gladly would you suffer that, I wonder?”

They were only words, Valjean reminded himself, flattened against the wall. Javert never carried out his threats. 

“Or I could show you mercy,” Javert’s voice was thoughtful. He heard the sound of movement behind him. Fabric rustled and something was dragged against cloth. Then the trousers he’d removed earlier dropped to the floor again, brushing his ankle. “Surely that’s what you want. You’d expect it of me if I were here with anyone but you, so why won’t you tell me to stop?”

The stiff leather of his folded belt touched his side and dragged meaningfully downwards, trailing shivering fire. Valjean squeezed his eyes closed. Javert’s free hand clasped his shoulder, and Valjean wondered if the gentle touch was for his benefit or Javert’s own. And then the belt rose and fell, the smack of leather against flesh bellowing against the stone walls. It was almost painless,but the sound shocked the breath out of him. His mouth opened in a silent gasp.

The next blow was harder and drew an inarticulate cry. Another followed, and then two more in rapid succession that left him panting against the wall.

“Ask me to stop,” Javert hissed. He himself sounded breathless. And then, when Valjean did not reply, “ _tell_ me to stop, Valjean.”

The belt was a stiff line against his behind, lying across the stinging line it had laid out on Valjean’s flesh. Even as Javert demanded he put a stop to this, he was trailing it over the sensitive flesh in a gesture that was half comforting and half threat. His cock throbbed in response and he no longer had the presence of mind to pray that Javert had not noticed. There was only the hand that gripped his shoulder and the insistent, almost-gentle pressure on his raw flesh.

Then the belt moved lower, the broad, warmed leather slipping between his legs. It ran over his balls, drawing a whimper, and then it withdrew. Javert’s hand followed, reaching around his front to find the stiffness of his cock. For a moment he was grasped firmly, a generous thumb slicking over the head. And then the hand was gone and the belt was gone and there was only the cold.

“You’re out of your mind,” Javert’s mouth was close to his ear. There was something awestruck in his tone that belied his words. “Even if this was what you deserved, it is not the correct way to--” Another despairing laugh. “And I would hardly be fit to administer it, even if it was.”

A deep breath. The belt was snatched away. “Valjean, I won’t allow this. It isn’t right for me to--” 

“No.” Valjean gasped against the wall, his eyes still squeezed shut. Speaking did not come naturally to him at the best of times, and this moment was harder than most. But he could not-- 

“Please, Javert. Continue.”

His breath was ragged. His arms, still outstretched against the wall, felt weak for the first time. Javert did not speak, but Valjean felt a hand on his face, turning him to meet Javert’s wary gaze.

“Please.” More words, then. If Javert needed words, let him have them. What dignity did he imagine he had in this? “If you wish to be merciful then please don’t stop.” 

Javert’s jaw was set in a frown. After a moment, he snapped, “Infuriating. Why must you complicate everything?” But he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Valjean’s temple. And taking hold of Valjean by his hair, he turned his head back to face the wall. “Five more,” he said, shifting his stance but keeping a hand on Valjean’s shoulder. “And you will be satisfied with that.”

The first blow was harder than before. Valjean imagined it as a stinging stripe across his backside and exhaled through clenched teeth. Another came in quick succession, overlapping where the belt had already landed. Valjean groaned, allowing his mind to sink into quiet obedience under Javert’s calming grip and the vicious snap of leather against skin.

His world narrowed to a single purpose. Not to help guide Javert through his own personal labyrinth. Not to rescue a dying woman or a starving child or a wounded student. Not to understand God’s will or to convince anyone of anything. There was only Javert’s hand and there was only the belt. It landed again and he was sure it would leave a mark. He hoped it would leave a mark.

“Two more,” Javert’s voice was low. And that was all the warning he had before the belt fell again, this time changing direction -- it curled between his legs, stinging his inner thigh and striking perilously close to his balls. Valjean shuddered but remained in place, eyes tightly shut as Javert’s fingers followed what must have been a reddened trail, tracing along his inner thigh and then moving to tease at his vulnerable genitals. He hummed thoughtfully in Valjean’s ear. 

“Now, I have a choice. And it’s one you’ve left to me, so I shall be the one to make it. Should I be merciful,” the hand closed around his ball sack, just tight enough to make the statement pointed. “Or should I be cruel?”

Javert waited a moment, his breath tickling the back of Valjean’s neck. Then he released his grip and placed a hand on Valjean’s lower back. Tension thrummed through Valjean at the threat, but he remained in place, breath coming in short, nervous bursts. Would Javert punish him for demanding too much? Had he, in fact, given Javert too much freedom to make good on his threats? He lowered his head between his splayed arms, preparing himself for the impact. 

“Well then,” Javert said. His hand tensed against Valjean’s back. And then he struck. 

The belt whistled in the air and landed on Valjean’s untouched thigh, swinging safely past his most vulnerable parts but hard enough to push him harder up against the wall. Then the belt thudded to the floor and Javert was tugging him backwards and around until his back was to the bricks and Javert was upon him, alternating kisses and curses. 

“Strong as ever, even after all this time. Good God, Valjean, if you could have seen yourself...” Javert sounded breathless, his hands threading through Valjean’s hair. And then, just as suddenly, “You are _infuriating_. How could you have allowed me to do such a thing? How could I--” 

He broke off, pulling his hands away. “Tell me. When were you last flogged?” 

The question stung more than any lash. Valjean took a half step backwards, found himself trapped between the wall and Javert’s expression of mounting horror.

The Orion, he thought. In disgrace and in chains and with no soothing hand on his shoulder. He had borne the pain, knowing that it would pass and he would escape or that he would die. He raised his head to meet Javert’s eyes. His voice sounded rough to his own ears. “Years ago. It was nothing like this, I swear to you.”

Javert’s eyes were fixed on Valjean’s. His mouth twisted. His eyes moved from the wall to Valjean’s naked form to the belt that lay crumpled between them. It seemed such a harmless thing, lying there on the floor. “There are more than enough similarities,” he said.

Valjean shook his head, groping for the hand that had wielded the belt. “None,” he insisted, raising the hand to his lips. “None that matter. You did me a great service, Javert. And one I didn’t know I needed.”

Javert frowned. “You aren’t always the best judge of your own interests, Jean Valjean,” he said, in a tone that tried for lightness and did not make it the whole way there. “But I must admit, that did not feel like anything I’ve ever done before.”

His hand found Valjean’s still-hard cock and stroked it admiringly. “This, for example. This is… quite unfamiliar.” He glanced upwards, and whatever he saw in Valjean’s eyes seemed to calm him.

“I was going to have you against this wall,” Javert said, drawing a hand over the underside of his cock, then taking it in hand with a still-unpractised grip. The words vibrated across his skin and Valjean closed his eyes. “But now I think something else is in order.”

His mouth moved down to Valjean’s throat, kissing furious devotion into his desperate flesh. He mouthed at Valjean’s collarbone and shoulders, that meticulous insistence that he brought to every task now wholly dedicated to Valjean. His teeth found a nipple and worked it to stiffness. Then the next. Valjean groaned and would have flung an arm over his face if his hands had not been drawn to Javert’s hair, his cravat and his jacket. He undid fastenings as Javert moved down his body, hungry to touch as much as possible before it was out of reach.

Javert was on one knee, his shirt and hair loosened. He stared up at Valjean with a kind of perplexed devotion, and seemed just as disarrayed as Valjean himself felt, and Valjean pressed a hand to his cheek.

“If you please, Javert -- proceed gently,” he suggested.

Javert’s back straightened at that. He nodded once, then leaned forward, lips parting, and Valjean could only watch in open admiration.

Javert was new to this as Valjean was. But he was the only one to perform this service for Valjean, and his mouth was diligent and eager and Valjean had waited long enough that he knew he would not last. Javert’s right hand had opened his trousers and he was working his own erection, which had surely been aching for a kind touch since before he had pressed Valjean against the wall.

Javert’s other hand was flattened against Valjean’s thigh, spreading his legs further apart but careful not to hold him still. His thumb rubbed insistent circles where the belt had left an angry red stripe across his inner thigh. Valjean groaned and Javert glanced up at him.

The sight was remarkable. Javert’s dark eyes on his, his mouth stretched around Valjean’s cock. Valjean felt himself twitch in Javert’s mouth. Javert must have felt it too because he did something devilish with his mouth. The hand on Valjean’s thigh moved to cup his balls, barely applying pressure, and the reminder of what Javert had threatened and offered and refused and granted was all too much. Valjean came with a strangled sound, sagging against the wall as relief came in pulsing waves of aching pleasure. 

He was dimly aware of Javert driving himself to completion afterwards, of Javert stumbling away, removing the rest of his clothing and returning with blankets and a wet cloth. He leaned in to Javert’s solid weight as he was cleaned, feeling a kind of light-headedness and heaviness around the arms and shoulders that surely ought to have been shame. 

By the time Javert had guided him to his bed, the exhaustion and tenderness that had barely troubled him before seemed to be dragging him down towards the mattress. Javert, it seemed, was generous enough to follow him. They lay together, breathing in slow rhythm. Javert allowed Valjean to curl around him as though he could keep the moment’s warmth locked tight between them. The silence was blissful.


End file.
